ANGELUS
by Cemetery Mink
Summary: What if Lecter sired a daughter before his incarceration? What would Clarice's reaction be? What if they were FRIENDS? Part 6 and the epilogue already here, so read and review, dagummit! ;o)
1. Angelus

disclaimer: lecter, starling, and mischa are not mine. angelus is, however. hope you like her. :)  
  
  
  
A woman stands smoking a Marlboro outside the steps of the Ospedale Della Misericordia. In Florence, the climate is forever warm and sunny, save for the occasional rainshower, with the sun shining, even in the midst of the downpour. Her choice of attire is unusual for this type of weather. She wears a long black trenchcoat over a three-piece suit that is similar in colour. Her tie is loosened and the top two buttons of her shirt is opened for comfort. Her vest, too, with the gold pocket watch safely tucked into the pocket is unbuttoned. She feels the watch weighing her down, as well as the gold plated .50 calibre Desert Eagle series magnums held close to her back by a customized body holster. She does not fear their discovery. Her clothes are so well tailored-for they are the best money can buy-that they hide the guns with ease.   
  
  
  
She crushes the stub of her cigarette beneath the heel of exquisitely made black boots. She takes another stick out from her inside breast pocket and lights it. Time seems to stand still when one stares at her, for she possesses a stunning beauty, one that can stop man or woman in their tracks. A warm wind whispers in from the east, catching strands of soft silken blonde hair, but it does not blow into her eyes, which are hidden behind dark wraparound sunglasses, the only thing apropos to the moment.   
  
  
  
Her mind is filled with complex mathematical figures and stock market lingo, as she mentally calculates the profits and losses from her numerous financial investments. Angelus Antoine is a very wealthy woman. She also has a prodigious talent in playing various musical instruments, her favorites of which are the harpsichord and the guitar.   
  
  
  
She graduated valedictorian from a Swiss boarding school at the age of fourteen, having skipped 7th and 8th grade, and breezing through high school in 2 years. Pre medical training was B.S. Psychology, completing the 4-year course in three semesters. At 15, Angelus Antoine entered medical school. Now, twelve years later, she has become one of the most respected and renowned in her field of neuro-cardiovascular surgery, having spent eight of those twelve years at the prestigious Johns Hopkins Medical School in Baltimore, Maryland, and graduating Summa Cum Laude with an unheard of GPA. Dr. Angelus Antoine. Surgeon, genius, billionaire. Unknown assassin of many.  
  
  
  
Did she do it with her medical knowledge, you might ask. No, our Angelus is an expert markswoman in her own right. She is one of the best, if not THE best in the world. The gold guns of Angelus Antoine have left a river of blood in their wake. The perfect killing machine, she is cold, quick, callous, accurate, and as remorseless as her father, the psychiatrist, Hannibal Lecter. Hannibal the Cannibal. Call him whatever you wish, for Angelus is as unaware of their relationship as he is of her existence.  
  
  
  
If she is so rich, then why does she kill? Another question. Again I have the answer. It's really quite simple. She is bored. A flimsy reason, you say. Quite right, but nonetheless true. At twenty-seven years of age she is fabulously wealthy, impossibly beautiful, extremely successful, and very very bored. The enormous sums of money that roll into her coffers on a daily basis do not impress her. The fancy platitudes and declarations of love from the mouths of numerous gentlemen no longer amuse her. Even the books she has loved since childhood fail to interest her.   
  
  
  
Angelus is the classic example of the corruption that comes when one has both too much wealth and education. The lack of parental guidance has much to do as to how she has turned out. Her mother, a Comtesse from one of the very finest and oldest French families, did not lift a finger in the upbringing of our your Viscomtesse. Instead, the job of rearing her was left up to the small army of servants under the employ of the Comtesse Marie' Jaqueline Antoine, who once upon a time loved the brilliant Hannibal Lecter.  
  
  
  
Angelus has not seen her mother for almost three years. She has no wish to remain in contact with her. But every month, an astronomical sum of money is withdrawn from Angelus bank account and is deposited into the Comtesse's. Her thoughts have now wandered far away, to her nona Mischa. Although not related by blood, she nonetheless feels attached to her, sonseiders her as sort of a grandmother, as Mischa was the one who offered her comfort whenever she needed it, and taught her to develop her love of reading and music. She puts out her cigarette now, and stares blankly into the horizon. And that is how she looked when Clarice first saw her.  
  
  
  
Clarice Starling. Formerly known as Special Agent Clarice Starling of the F.B.I.; Starling, Clarice M. to a certain Jack Crawford; is now called Hannah Ruiz, wife to one Dr. Augustin Ruiz, more infamously known as Hannibal Lecter. Dr. Lecter works at the hospital, where he has a small yet prosperous psychiatric practice. Hannah Ruiz, alighting from a taxi cab to go to her husband sees Angelus for the first time as the other woman reaches into her jet black 1956 Jaguar Roadster. Plate number: ANGELUS. She takes out a white medical coat and hurries into the hospital. A twenty-one year old girl lies unconscious in the operating room, waiting for Dr. Antoine to operate on the tumor that is rapidly eating away at her brain. Clarice follows her.  
  
  
  
The next time Hannah sees Doctor Antoine, it is almost a week later. She is walking down the corridor from Augustin's office where she has spent a most pleasurable afternoon. Angelus is slumped down in a chair, seemingly asleep. The dark circles under her eyes show that she has not gotten much rest lately. In fact, Angelus has just come from another twenty-one hour-long operation. The lack of sleep is taking its toll on her. Clarice approaches her cautiously, wanting to see if everything is alright. Her first sighting of doctor Antoine had roused her curiosity, not because of how good she looked, but because of her regal bearing and an extraordinary stillness the uncannily resembles someone she knows and loves.  
  
  
  
As is sensing she is being observed, Dr. Antoine jerks awake, looking perfectly coiffed save for the traces of sleepiness that lurk around the corner of her eyes. This is the first time she has seen them, and is surprised to find herself drowning in their deep pools. Hannibal's eyes. The thought is so brief that she almost takes no notice of it. Angelus stands, doing so as lithely and elegantly as a dancer.  
  
  
  
"Good Afternoon, how may I help you?" That voice. So cultured and resonant. Such a well-educated voice. The image of Hannibal comes unbidden in Clarice's mind. Angelus speaks perfect Italian as well as a myriad of other languages. There is an aura of barely leashed power that surrounds her. It waits, silently, ruthlessly held under control by the indomitable will of this woman. Clarice finds herself intimidated by it.  
  
  
  
"No, I just wanted to see if you were alright. My name is Hannah Ruiz."   
  
  
  
"Dr. Angelus Antoine. I am pleased to meet you, Hannah." She extends her hand. Angelus' hands are pale. Her fingers long and perfectly formed. Unlike most women, her nails are cut very short, without a hint of nail polish. There is an overall sense of cleanliness and fastidiousness about her. Clarice reaches to shake her hand. It is soft and surprisingly cool to the touch.  
  
  
  
"The pleasure was mine, doctor."  
  
  
  
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that's all i can think of for the moment, please be so kind as to r/r. and if you feel the urge to flame me, please do it via e-mail, okey-dokey?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Lunch by the Ponte Vecchio

disclaimer: Lecter and starling ain't mine. Forgive some of the phrases fellas, I don't know much Latin, so please, bear with me if the translations were off. J  
  
They have lunch together the next day. Two breathtakingly beautiful women in an open café near the Ponte Vecchio. The passersby stop to stare at this unusual sight in a city already full of heavenly beauty. Clarice found herself quite comfortable and at ease in Angelus' company. Their conversation flowed like the wine they drank. Rich, dark, smooth and fluid. Clarice marveled at the ease with which Angelus carried herself. The way she sipped from her glass, the way her long fingers would reach up to flick away some stray strands of hair that had been blown into her maroon eyes, and the way that the corners of her mouth twisted into a lazy smile.  
  
The spoke in Italian of god and the devil, of the books that each had read, of their mutual admiration for Bach and Scarlatti, and Angelus was pleasantly surprised to discover that Clarice was quite familiar with the works of Dante Alighieri. They discussed at great length his La Vita Nuova, quoting phrases that had caught their individual fancy.  
  
"For me, Dante's Nuova Antologia is the perfect and prime example of how deeply and intensely love can affect one person. Of how your whole life can chane in a moment. After all, upon beholding Beatrice, Dante believed he had found the new divinity in his life. Love." Clarice was saying.   
  
"Do you really believe so, Hannah? Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi?(Behold a god more powerful than I, who comes to rule over me)."   
  
Angelus reached into her pocket and brought out an unopened pack of Marlboro reds. She tore away the gold strip and took out two sticks, handing one to Clarice and lighting for her with a delicately engraved gold lighter. Clarice took it gratefully. It was months since she last had a smoke. Angelus raised her hand, signaling the waitress for an ashtray and two cappuccinos.  
  
"Of course. When Beatrice died, he wrote it in the antologia: O vos omnes qui transitis per viam, attendite et videte si est dolor sicut meus (O all you who pass this way, listen and see, if there is any grief like mine)"   
  
"Hmmm, the words of Jeremiah the prophet." The waitress brought over the ashtray, informing them that it would take another five minutes for the cappuccinos. Angelus nodded in understanding.   
  
"I'm surprised to find that you are well versed in the bible, Angelus." Clarice resumed the conversation.  
  
"Well, I WAS named after the prayer." She smiled, eyes crinkling in a friendly manner. "The angel of the lord declared unto Mary, and she conceived of the Holy Spirit. Behold the handmaid of the Lord…"  
  
"Be it done to me according to your word." Clarice finished.  
  
"You don't seem to be too ignorant of it, Hannah." Angelus cocked her head to one side, looking into Clarice's eyes.  
  
"No, I suppose not."   
  
"Good." She declared. "Ah, here are our cappuccinos. Finally"  
  
"Osanna in exelcis," Clarice said, earning another smile from the normally blank face of Angelus Antoine.  
  
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	3. A Drive Through the Countryside

  
Disclaimer: Same thing I've said for the past two chapters, or haven't you been paying any attention, you naughty girl?  
  
  
  
Laughter. Clarice's days were filled with it, and her nights were occupied by passion. Whenever Hannibal was at work, Clarice found that she no longer had to stay at home and while the hours until he came back. Instead, she went out with Angelus. They shopped, walked around Florence, visited museums, markets, and went out for joyrides in Angelus' many cars.   
  
Today they were in a red Ferrari F50, cruising with the top down along the Tuscan countryside at 80 miles per hour. Clarice was not afraid to zip around like a maniac, for Angelus, like her, loved speed. That was why she owned so many fast cars.  
  
The colors flew rapidly by, lush greens and golds, fields full of ripe, bursting wheat. Flocks of sheep grazing peacefully in their pastures.   
  
  
Angelus was reclining in the passenger seat, looking for all the world to be sleeping, but the steady drumming of her fingers on the door said she was quite alert and lucid. They were listening to an Oasis C.D. and the song 'Go Let it Out' blared from the speakers, fighting for supremacy with the wind.  
  
She was dressed semi-formally in a black suit and white lawn shirt, a dark fedora pulled over her strange eyes, and instead of her usual designer boots and pocket watch, she was wearing black Doc Martens, yellow stitching like flags, and a silver wrist watch.   
  
I guess this is what casual mean to her, Clarice observed mentally. She herself was no slouch in practically the same attire, except that her shirt was burgundy and she had the jacket off and the sleeves rolled up. They bought it last week; on the same day that she found out Angelus could speak over sixty-five languages, forty-seven fluently, and it was the first time they ever spoke in English.  
  
Clarice had nearly eradicated all traces of her 'Country Twang' as Hannibal had termed it, but Angelus had politely inquired, "West Virginian?" Disconcerted, she said yes. Unlike Hannibal, though, Angelus merely dismissed it with a curt nod, and Clarice could not tell if she was annoyed or displeased.  
  
"Turn left at the next fork, Hannah," Angelus cool voice cut through the wind and music. Her accent was an oddity itself. A strange mix of American and British, she sounded like a Yank who had spent too much time out of the country. Overall though, it was very pleasing to hear. The rise and fall of the vowels and consonants so similar to Hannibal's inflections. Clarice saw the fork and turned left, right at the weather-beaten sign roughly in the shape of an arrow that read; 'Castillo Tejada.'  
  
They drove along in silence for ten more minutes. One of the things that Angelus found odd about her friendship with Angelus was how they could be so comfortable in total silence. Even with Ardelia, whom she had known for more than eight years, she would feel ill at ease without the swearing and idle chitchat that had punctuated her former existence.  
  
Angelus was seated upright now, fedora beside her as she hammered away at her laptop. She never seemed to travel anywhere without it. Just like Hannibal and his Harpy, Clarice thought. Blue tinted shades hid her unusual maroon eyes. Her cellphone rang and she answered it, speaking rapidly in a language Clarice did not understand. She caught snatches of English in it, though. The words yes, no, Florence, Castillo Tejada, and her name, Hannah Ruiz. Clarice assumed correctly that she was informing whoever it was on the other end about their whereabouts and destination.  
  
Towards the end of their conversation, however, Angelus switched to English, saying "Yes, I understand……of course, nona……Alright. I'll see you then……No, but I'll be in Russia two weeks from now……yes……No worries, I'll not forget to drop by……Oh, and Mischa?…thank you for telling me that…Alright. Goodbye."  
  
At the mention of the name Mischa, Clarice's ears perked up. After all, Mischa wasn't a very common name, and with Angelus maroon eyes, the idea at the back of her head began to take root and evolve into speculation.  
  
"Angelus?" Clarice started.  
  
"Hmmm?" Angelus did not look up from her laptop, seemingly engrossed in the numbers that were crawling up the screen.  
  
"Who is Mischa?"  
  
"Mischa…" she looked up now, "is a friend. A grandmother of sorts, I would like to think."  
  
"You're not related?"  
  
"No. Actually, she isn't even old enough to be my nona, but I remember her telling me when I was a child that she felt so old, you follow? It's like that song; 'My body feels young but my mind is very old.'" She finished, singing the last part in a clear alto.  
  
"Oasis, Half the World Away."  
  
"Quite right. Anyway, Mischa is Russian, I think. I first came to know her when I was in a museum in Moscow. I was six. We were both looking at this painting on temporary exhibit, and she started telling me all about it. The painter, the painting's history, why he painted it. Naturally, I was enraptured. I think she was a little intrigued that a six year-old might actually be able to understand her ramblings."  
  
"Did she tell you, or is that your own opinion?"  
  
"Possibly both. Oh, turn right into that gate."   
  
The large cast iron gate was open and looked to be centuries old. Ivy crawled all over its delicate patterns, obscuring some of its original design. A medium-sized fort could be seen at the top of the hill, its single watchtower standing out like a beacon. The lightning rod on it glinted when Clarice glanced at it. Olive trees lined the drive they were on now, providing some relief from the hot afternoon sun.  
  
"The Castillo Tejada. It's been in my family for generations, Hannah. I and my best friend used to play in there when we were children." Clarice looked at her in an odd fashion before turning her attention back to the road.  
  
"Did I say something wrong?"  
  
"No, of course not, Angelus. It's just that I've never heard you speak of your family, or your childhood for that matter. Ever."  
  
"Rather remiss of me, isn't it? I don't like talking about it much. But very well, what do you want to know?" Angelus finally logged off the internet, disconnecting the car phone and shut her laptop before regarding Clarice.  
  
"I don't know, you tell me."  
  
"Well, I was born on the first of April, twenty-seven years ago in our family estate in France."  
  
"You're French?"  
  
"As far as I know." Angelus ran her fingers through her hair.  
  
"What do you mean by that?"  
  
"My mother is French. The Comtesse de Valois."  
  
"I see. Your father was the Comte de Valois?"  
  
"No. I never knew him. He could be French, Spanish, Italian, German, English, or even American. I could not care less. Jack-my mother, Marie' Jaqueline Antoine- never told anyone. I believe everyone thinks me to be the spawn of Satan himself." She let out a bitter laugh.  
  
"You're not very fond of your mother, are you, Angelus?"  
  
"No." short, curt, and harsh.  
  
"May I ask why?"  
  
"No." her words rang with finality. They pulled into the vast courtyard, where a fountain stood in the middle, water spouting from the mouths of babes. A tall regal-looking woman was walking towards them, raven hair swinging from side to side. She had pale skin and exquisitely sculpted features. She walked in a gait similar to Angelus'. Clarice wondered if this was her mother, but no, she was much too young to be. They got out of the car just as the woman stopped to look them over from head to toe.  
  
Her twinkling blue eyes were good-natured and friendly, an exact opposite from Angelus', which was the exact color of blood before it dries. A strange tableaux they presented, three women in the courtyard of an old fort, so silent you could hear a pin if it was dropped on the loose cobblestones.  
  
  
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hiya fellas, please r/r. i know it isn't very good, but if you should feel the urge to flame me, do it via e-mail okey dokey?  
  



	4. Dominique Montero

Disclaimer: Clarice is not mine. She belongs to Hannibal, and i like my liver just fine where it is, so i won't argue with the good doctor. Angelus Antoine and Dominique Montero are the products of my own sick and fucked up mind. Please don't sue, cos all you'll get is the pack of Marlboros on my desk.  
  
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The woman tipped her head to the left and grinned suddenly. She reached out and grabbed Angelus into a bear hug, rubbing Angelus' head like a dog afterward, mussing up her hair.   
  
"Goddamn it Angel-eyes. Where have you been?" her English has a slightly Spanish-accented lilt.  
  
"London to visit the queen."  
  
"I wouldn't be surprised. Tell me, did you frighten the little mouse under her chair, hmmm?"   
  
" Nope. No mice this time. Just big fat parliamentary rats. Peerage bastards."  
  
"You have such a low opinion of the nobility, considering you are one of them."  
  
"Ah, but not by choice, my darling Domi. One does not choose how he or she is to be born."  
  
"You know, I've always felt so very sorry for those poor princes and princesses'. Tsk tsk. Such unhappy lives. All that money, those servants and their ponies. Such unlucky brats."   
  
"You don't have to be sarcastic, Domi."  
  
"Since when have I not been, in all of my thirty years? Good lord Angelus, surely you must know that. Oh, where are my manners. Matter of fact, where are yours?"  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"Introduce me to your friend, Doctor."  
  
"My apologies." Angelus turns to Clarice. "Domi, this is Hannah Ruiz. And Hannah, this escaped lunatic is my best friend, the one whom I had been talking about in the car, Dominique Montero."  
  
"Hello, Dominique."   
  
Please, call me Domi. Everyone else seems to. Except for Angel-eyes here who sometimes pronounces it as 'Dummy'. Is Hannah Ruiz your full name?"  
  
"Yes, actually it is."  
  
"Very short, isn't it?"  
  
"Quite."   
  
Clarice liked Dominique Montero. There was a refreshing candidness to her person. Plus, she also reminded her of what Angelus might be like if she were only friendlier. Could they be related?  
  
"Are you married, Hannah?"  
  
"As a matter of fact, yes, I am."  
  
"Hmmm. For how long?"  
  
"A few months." Clarice tried to evade the questions. She liked Angelus and Dominique, so she didn't relish the thought of lying to them.  
  
"Okey-dokey then. Introductions completed, lets go inside now, shall we, Dominique?"   
  
Clarice felt grateful for Angelus intervention, until she looked into the other woman's eyes and saw that Angelus knew she was uncomfortable with the topic, yet had not drawn any conclusions yet.  
  
"Actually, I thought we might go riding."  
  
"Riding?" Clarice repeated.  
  
"Yes, Hannah. Angelus, your new horse has just arrived from Spain. Devilishly handsome bastard he is, too."  
  
"I haven't seen him yet."  
  
"Let us go then, shall we? Perfect specimen of a black Andalusian." Dominique gestured towards an old building into the distance. Those must be the stables.  
  
"Alright." Angelus reached into her car and retrieved two small bags. One was Clarice's and the other was hers. She had told 'Hannah' to pack in an extra shirt and some jeans as well. Now Clarice understood why.  
  
  
  
The estate was wonderful and vast, a canvas of delightful contrasts. Whereas the front part of it was carefully manicured and maintained, its fields in the back were allowed to grow wild and free. Sheep grazed in the pastures beyond a small grove of olive trees, and the distant hills were verdant with life.  
  
The barn looked old but stable, its wood weathered by the rain, sun and wind. Several birds nested in the dusty straw in its attic section. Inside, dozens of horses were in their stalls, nickering softly at Angelus who reached out and patted their noses.   
  
"I see you haven't forgotten me, old friend." Angelus said, rubbing the neck of a golden coloured Akhal-Teke', a breed of desert horse prized for their endurance and resistance to heat. Its coat was still shiny, but hung loosely on its aged frame. She leaned into the horse and blew softly into its nostrils.   
  
Clarice was reminded of Hannah, whom she had ridden so long ago, on that cold and lonely night when the screaming started.   
  
Angelus reached into her pocket for a sugar cube, feeding it to the old horse. She gave its platinum mane one last twirl before going over to the next stall.   
  
The sawdust and gravel crunched loosely under Clarice's boots. She smelled the good clean smell of horse sweat and leather. The liniment they used on the animals' tired muscles, as well as the tape they wrap around the horses legs. Several sacks of feed were piled up in one corner, scattered beside the huge haystack. A pitchfork was stuck in it, beside a mangy English sheep dog that raised his tired head to glance at them before laying it back on its paws.   
  
"There's a changing room in the back, Hannah. You go on and dress ahead while I show Angelus her new horse."  
  
Angelus looked at them. "No, I'll be along in a moment. We'll go and look at the horse together, eh?"  
  
"No, really, Angelus. It's fine. Go and take a look at the 'handsome bastard' and I'll be fine. Really." She made quotation marks in the air.  
  
"Alright. But Dominique, I want you to stay with her and you also get dressed. Just tell me where the damned horse is."   
  
"Sure thing Angel-eyes." Domi Montero smiled, once again, blue eyes twinkling.  
  
"Where's the horse?"  
  
"Next building, last stall to the right. You, know, the one where they used to keep Alfonso before he was shot in the hunt," she paused as if assessing Angelus' reaction.   
  
" I'm sorry Angel-eyes, but it was the only empty one."  
  
Angelus tensed, as if remembering something painful, then nodded curtly and marched out the building, veering to the left. She also has her monsters. For Clarice it is the lambs, Hannibal, the deer, for Angelus, the memory of a green-eyed boy and the horse Alfonso.  
  
Clarice watched her stalk out before turning around to get dressed. Dominique Montero put a restraining hand on her shoulder. Clarice looked into her eyes, which were no longer friendly but instead, glazed over with the look of a predator. But she was not afraid.  
  
"Hannah, what do you think of Angelus?"  
  
"She is a very nice person," Clarice offered.  
  
"No, what I mean is, what do you perceive her to be?"  
  
"As I said before, I find her to be a very nice person," she said brusquely, not liking the tone in Dominique's voice. "And I do not appreciate being handled like so."  
  
Instantly Dominique let go of her shoulder and took a step backwards.  
  
"I do apologize." She narrowed her eyes at Clarice. "You think she is very nice? Well, do not allow yourself to be fooled. She seems harmless, does she not? Even kind, passive, maybe, for all her great intelligence, you still think you are better than she is, don't you, Hannah?"  
  
"That's bullshit, and you know it, Montero." She was riled now, snatches of her West Virginian accent shining through.  
  
"Is your name even Hannah Ruiz? Tell me, Miss."  
  
"Why are you doing this?"  
  
"I am doing this because Angelus is my friend. I have known her almost all my life since she was born. We grew up together, and played together. She seems to like you very much, and I would not want to think of you lying to her."  
  
"I do not lie unless necessary."  
  
"And do you deem it necessary to withhold the truth from her?"  
  
"Which is?"  
  
"You tell me."  
  
"Be more specific."  
  
"Tell me, Hannah, what is your stand on murder?"  
  
"What does this have to do with Angelus?"  
  
"Just tell me! Is it alright with you, or are your delicate feminine sensibilities so offended by the taking of a life?"  
  
"You have no idea who you are talking to."  
  
"You think? Trust me, I know much more than you believe, Special Agent Starling."  
  
Clarice was shocked. Frantically she raced through her mind, searching for a means to end this conversation, even if it meant taking the life of Dominique Montero.  
  
"Go on, Clarice. Tell me all. About how your alleged disappearance from the F.B.I. was staged, you never were really carried off by Hannibal Lecter, you're working undercover, trying to expose Angelus and put her in jail."  
  
At that instant, Clarice could have almost laughed in her face with relief. Nothing could have been further from the truth.   
  
"No, Miss Montero. You are quite mistaken. Whatever you may think you know, throw it out the window, and believe this. I would not do anything to harm Angelus." Dominique looked deep into Clarice's eyes and knew it to be true.  
  
"However, I would like this to be kept between the two of us, understood?"  
  
"And why is that, Special Agent Starling?"  
  
"Former Special Agent."  
  
"Were you really taken by Hannibal Lecter?"  
  
"In a manner of speaking, yes." She blushed.  
  
Dominique Montero smiled, the twinkle back into her eyes. "Let's leave it at that now, shall we? I admit I myself am not as innocent as can be believed."  
  
"Really now, Domi?"  
  
"True. Since you have been so candid with your admissions, allow me to confide a little truth about myself and Angelus."  
  
"Are you sure that is a wise thing?"  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Then I have no objections."  
  
"Ever wonder why Angelus doesn't talk much about her childhood?"  
  
"She TALKS about it?" Clarice raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Actually, she seems to bristle like a porcupine each time I try to mention her mother or her childhood."  
  
"She didn't have a very happy one."  
  
"So I gathered."  
  
"The Comtesse Marie Jacqueline Antoine is a bitter and cold woman," Dominique started.  
  
"Her mother."  
  
"Right. When she was pregnant with Angelus, there was a big scandal over it. She was known as the 'ice princess', or the 'snow queen', the type where butter would not melt in her mouth, denying every single male access to her bed. So when she was enceinte, you can just imagine what people thought."  
  
"Who was Angelus' father?"  
  
"Who knows? Certainly not me, or her for that matter. The Comtesse never told anyone. Even Angelus."  
  
"Is that all to it?"  
  
"No, there's more. When Angelus was born, she was shipped off to one of their estates in England, where she was raised by a veritable army of servants. The closest thing to a father she ever had was Norfolk, their butler."  
  
"How did you two become friends?"  
  
"Well, technically we're cousins. Our mothers were. She was born when I was three, and since I was also living in an adjoining estate, we often played together. Clarice, I am the only real friend Angelus has ever had, until you came along."  
  
Clarice furrowed her brow, wondering where this was headed. Dominique noticed this and quickly tried to calm her down.  
  
"Don't worry, I'll not tell her who you really are. For all her friendliness, Angelus is very much capable of destruction."  
  
"No, that's not why I was frowning. I was just wondering why she hates her mother so much. I mean, sending her away was bad enough, but at least she was well cared for," Clarice saw the obvious parallel with her own life, her mother sending her away to live in a sheep and horse ranch. But that was because there was no other choice. Angelus' mother actually sent her there for no apparent reason. "Was she?"  
  
"Yes, of course. I mean she IS a Viscomtesse. Angelus is very strange, haven't you noticed?"  
  
Clarice immediately thought of Hannibal. "No," she admitted.  
  
"Good for you. Even as a child she was always like that. Sometimes I would ride over there on my horse to play with Angelus, and she would be seated on the floor in the centre of their great library, just reading all these old books. It was very weird."  
  
"People like to read."  
  
"But with her, it was almost this obsessive need, to learn."  
  
"Go on."  
  
"We both went to the same schools together. She was a rebel, always getting into trouble with authority, but they couldn't kick her out because of her mother's money and influence, plus it was undeniable that Angelus was a true genius."  
  
"Are you also a doctor?"  
  
"No. See, that's where she starts hating her mother. Despite graduating at the top of each and every class she ever took and being accelerated and skipping grade levels due to her intelligence, her mother would not let her be a doctor. She wanted Angelus to enter the family business, which was basically dabbling in the stock market. When Angelus was fifteen, she wanted to go to medical school at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. Jacqueline wouldn't let her. She cut off all financial support, and Angelus was forced to fend for herself. She tried applying for scholarship, of course, but was immediately denied after the higher ups viewed her records, you know, previous schools and stuff. And let me tell you, those fucking things were not cheap. So a scholarship was out. She tried doing odd jobs, but medical schools are devilishly expensive things, and despite the fact that she was juggling two jobs AND going to school, it just wasn't enough."  
  
"How did she ever finish?"  
  
"I tried to offer her some monetary support. I myself was going to school at Harvard, to be a lawyer. She did not want money she did not work for herself, and that is where Miguel De La Roche stepped in."  
  
"The Columbian Drug lord…."  
  
"Yes, the very same. He offered her a job. It was very grisly, but Angelus was willing to do it."  
  
"So she became a drug runner." Clarice speculated.  
  
"No, far from it. De La Roche wanted her to be a professional assassin. She accepted. Seemed to enjoy it as well. I suppose that's how she manages her rage."  
  
"An assassin? Angelus was an assassin?"  
  
"Still is. Though these days, she mostly does it as favours as well as for the kicks. Funny thing is, she never once flinched while killing someone. Committed her first murders at sixteen, when the bills just wouldn't add up. You see, Angelus has always been very good with guns, even as a child she could hit a soda bottle at 200 yards without the aid of an optical sight, just using a simple metallic one. The two of you could talk shop for hours." Dominique smiled. "That's all you need to know, and I suspect, you already understand. So lets get dressed now, shall we, before Angelus gets back."   
  
"One last question though, Domi."  
  
"What is it, Clarice?"  
  
"Why do you call her Angel-eyes?"  
  
"Have you ever seen her eyes?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Farthest thing from an angel's, don't you think? I'm more inclined to imagine a devil would possess such eyes."  
  
"Oh, I don't know," Clarice was smiling softly. "I think an angel and a devil could have eyes like that…" My Hannibal, she added silently.  
  
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Hiya folks! :) Please bear with me. I know y'all want to get on to the Lecter bit, but I kinda wanted to establish Angelus as a real person with a background, not like other literary Lecter offspring. I have been sooo guilty of taking the "kids" for granted, only wanting to read about Lecter. Indulge me, Okey-dokey, blokes? I promise the next bit will have Hannibal in it. But, as Shirley Manson once sang: Lord knows I try to be good; I keep my promises if only I could......  
  
oh, please r/r and tell me if i should even bother posting the next bit or if i have bored you. thanx. flame me via e-mail, okey-dokey? not like that girl from B.S. Psychology. 


	5. The Death of Rolland DeSilva

disclaimer: not mine. too lazy to add anything more. :)  
  
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Between the Arno River and the Palazzo Vecchio stands the Palazzo degli Ufizzi. It was designed by Giorgio Vasari and built in the late 16th century. This fortress like building used to house government offices and law courts, but now it is famous for its museum, the Uffizi gallery, which boasts an unsurpassed collection of the works of Raphael, Titian, and Sandro Boticelli.   
  
  
Clarice, Dominique and Angelus had spent the entire day just roaming around Florence. Although Angelus worked at the Della Misericordia, she had very little time and did not seem to find it worth the effort to actually explore Florence. Dominique was just visiting from Spain, and was staying at the Castillo Tejada, so the both of them were somewhat ignorant to the city's ancient beauty, despite Angelus' familiarity with the smaller and less known museums. She deemed the more prominent ones a waste of time, and Clarice was out to prove her wrong.  
  
  
Clarice delighted in showing them the places Hannibal had taken her to. Angelus in particular seemed to enjoy the art galleries the most and spent a lot of time just staring at the paintings whilst offering side comments and a brief history of some of the pieces and sculptures.  
  
  
The nearby Ponte Vecchio is lined with goldsmiths' and jewellers' shops. Built in 1350, it was the only bridge to be spared in the war when the Germans bombed all the bridges on the Arno. It bridges the river to lead to the Palazzo Pitti on the left bank, another art gallery, such as the Uffizi.  
  
  
By now, the sun had retreated behind dark clouds, and electricity crackled in the air. The wind was at a virtual standstill. This is the calm that comes before a storm. They decided to call it a day and went into a posh restaurant in the Piazza Della Signoria, beside the Loggia dell'Orcagna, an open-air sculpture museum with three distinctive arches. Donatello's famous sculpture of Judith cutting off the head of Holofernes was once placed under one these.  
  
  
They ordered dinner, which Angelus offered to pay for, and a bottle of 1945 Chateau Petrus claret, costing 11,600 pounds or 37,321,739 lire. The coolness in the manner Angelus' disposed of such a large sum of money surprised even Clarice, whom Hannibal had lavished riches upon. Another surprise came in the form of payment. Instead of waiting for the food to be served and consumed before paying, Angelus called for the manager, a tall too thin man who seemed to regard her as a regular patron. He swiped the credit card on the little machine himself, and when the receipt came out, she signed it with a delicate copperplate script. It was the first time Clarice had ever seen her handwriting.  
  
  
Outside it was already raining. The water fell like miniature missiles, exploding on impact on the old hewn stones of the Piazza. It was deserted now; pedestrians had sought the warmth and comfort of their own homes as opposed to the chill of the rain. Even the pigeons that frequented it daily had gone home to roost. Angelus' cellular phone chose this moment to ring.  
  
  
The pleasant and affable expression on her face had vanished immediately upon hearing the voice on the other end. She glanced over at a portly gentleman seated at the next table with a young blonde. He had to be at least sixty, belly bulging despite the best efforts of his expensive clothes that did not fit properly. They were too tight. He had his hand on the girl's thigh under the table and was slowly rubbing the inside of it. She could not have been more than fifteen.  
  
  
Angelus' expression remained expressionless as whoever was at the other end continued to talk. She had not said anything during the entire call. Dominique and Clarice continued to talk as if nothing was happening, but Clarice was watching Angelus out of the corner of her eye. Angelus was still looking at the man who had stood up to leave, taking with him a long cigar. Finally, she said one word before ending the conversation and politely excusing herself from their table: "Yes," in a flat, emotionless tone. Before she goes, however, she takes one last sip from her glass of Chateau Petrus, leaving it half full. Angelus saw it as half empty.  
  
  
Rolland DeSilva was a child pornographer. He loved Florence, where it was relatively easy to find a child who was perfectly willing to do an hour's work in exchange for a pittance that he or she would undoubtedly spend on drugs. This young one was no exception. Licking his lips, he remembered the way she felt as he rode her last night, the all-seeing red eye of the camera blinking in the darkness. He took out a cigar clipper and cut off one end of the cigar he held before lighting it. He was getting worried these days, though. He still owed several people a lot of money, and rumour was that one of them had taken out a contract on his life. He didn't care about that. What really bothered him was that somehow he had engaged the ire of Miguel De La Roche, who was closely acquainted with the infamous and influential Angelus Antoine, a doctor-billionaire who allegedly had a penchant for murder. He has never seen Angelus Antoine. Shrugging his shoulders, he steps into the dark alleyway where there is a little shelter from the rain before taking a puff of his cigar.  
  
  
A dark figure materializes from the shadows behind Rolland DeSilva. If he had turned around, he would have seen fierce demonic eyes-red sparks pinwheeling into blackness deep as the night-embedded into a pale face that could only be found on an angel. The wind makes her trenchcoat flap dramatically, and when it does, you can see long fingers curled around the grips of two gold-plated guns, pulling them out of their holsters, the whisper of metal rubbing against leather being drowned out by the rain.  
  
  
When Angelus Antoine kills, it is as if time moves in slow motion. The drops of the rain are falling languorously, each patter resounding like tiny firecrackers in her ear. They go plop…plop…plop. The smoke coming from the cigar wafts lazily into the air, and it is as if she can see the individual particles as they dissolve into the void. The guns are brought slowly together in front of her, silencers in place as she cocks them; the simultaneous clicks making DeSilva turn around in horror. It is too late for him. The two guns go off at the same time, the force of the bullets' ejection from their chambers making the guns jump back in recoil. Angelus sees the bullets leave the barrel. Sees them as if they move through water, the little trail they make in the cold air, and the smoke that surrounds the gun, where the heat of the gunpowder igniting warms the cold night air. She sees them slice through Rolland DeSilva's suit, tearing into flesh and bone, before finally exploding, causing enough internal damage that his heart gives out.  
  
  
As he crumples to the ground, the large red stain of blood is rapidly spreading across the front and back of his white suit. The bullets have even splattered some blood on the brick walls and on his face. Some of it trickles down into little streams, being washed away by the rain, mixing with the dirt. Across the Piazza, two men are getting out of a black Mercedes, carrying a folded body bag. They are the cleanup team provided by De La Roche. They take DeSilva's body away. Angelus nods to them before checking herself for any bloodstains. Her maroon eyes flash into the night. She needn't have bothered. Her dark suit would hide any marks of her activities. Twenty yards behind her, another pair of maroon eyes flash. The shadowy figure had watched her with rapt interest as she killed. He might have even been impressed by her style. Quick, clean, and efficient. She turns around just as Hannibal Lecter materializes from the darkness.  
  
  
They look at each other, father and daughter, neither one knowing about each other. Two generations of aristocracy, two doctors, two mass murderers, two pairs of maroon eyes burning into the night. Who knows which one is the more dangerous? Which one is to fear? Perhaps both. Angelus sees the glint of a harpy in the man's scarred left hand. She knows it all too well, identifying it easily due to the distinctly curved talon-like shape of its blade. It is the same one she has in her right pocket. They look at each other, unblinking, in the silence broken only by the gentle patter of the rain.  
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okey-dokey, people, just one more chapter to go, then the epilogue. thanx for even bothering to read the darn thing. ta ta now, Tailgunner 


	6. Fire and Ice

disclaimer: not mine.  
  
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" Each one stands alone on the earth's surface. Hit by sunlight. And it's already night."  
-Genghis Khan-  
  
  
Hannibal Lecter slips the harpy back into his pocket, and his body relaxes a little. In some part of his subconscious, he acknowledges the tension that gripped him when he looked at the young woman fully. She remains passive, body at ease, but still poised in an almost indiscernible attack crouch.  
  
  
He takes a step forward. She does not move. He takes another step. She concedes in this battle of bluffs and they walk towards the restaurant together, two silent figures dressed in black, each confused, if a little intrigued by the other.  
  
  
The lamplight illuminates these two. They stand, frozen in time, engulfed by the light amidst a shower of raindrops. He turns around and grasps her by her upper arms, pinioning them to her body. She is unable to move. We see the scar that runs between the third and fourth finger of his left hand clearly now. He looks up at her, and she tilts her head slightly to look deep into his eyes. At five feet nine, Angelus Antoine is a couple of inches taller than her father. She has her mother's aristocratic features. Her straight and proud roman nose, the shape of her face, the long slender neck, the full, almost pouting lips and even the natural tallness of Marie Jacqueline Antoine, Comtesse de Valois.   
  
  
She has her father's eyes, however. As well as his spirit and intellect. They share the same poise, grace, and fluidity of movement. He lets go of her arms and takes her hands in his. He studies them intently.  
  
  
They are identical in every aspect.  
  
  
Their hands, skilful in the ways of art and murder, stained with the blood of so many, purified by the cleansing rain.   
  
  
Flesh against flesh.  
  
  
White on white.  
  
  
One.   
  
And the same.  
  
  
Maroon eyes lock onto each other; a confession is made and accepted. A lie twenty-seven years in the making is brought to light, here in the darkened Piazza in the midst of a rainstorm, father and daughter communicate without words. Water drips down the tips of their finely carved noses and falls to the ground, seeping into the cracks and into the damp earth beneath the cobblestones. Hair now plastered close to their skulls. Coats drenched.  
  
  
Before he releases her hands, he says to her, "A good evening to you."  
  
  
Her answer; "Likewise."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Clarice Starling looks up just in time to see Hannibal Lecter enter the restaurant. There is a strange light in his eyes. One she has never seen before. He takes a seat far away from her table, but they are still able to see one another, unhindered by the other diners. His body language tells her to stay put, and that he does not wish to be disturbed. He is a man with a lot on his mind. Clarice has not encountered him in this state.  
  
  
She does not notice Angelus, who has quietly pulled out her chair and taken a seat until the other woman makes apologies for her absence. Angelus finishes her wine. Her clothes are perfectly dry although her normally soft blonde hair is soaked thoroughly, making damp spots on her suit jacket. There is perhaps a dark stain on the right sleeve that did not come from the rain.  
  
  
Their food is served, and Clarice and Dominique dig in heartily, but Angelus chooses to stare at it blankly, not noticing the delicious aroma wafting towards her nostrils. Clarice glances over at Hannibal. He has ordered the same wine Angelus chose to go with his meal, but right now, he is looking over at their table. She is unable to discern whether he is studying her or Angelus. They both have that same blank look on their faces, blind and unseeing.  
  
  
At this exact moment, all the pieces come together in Clarice's head. She finally puts two and two together. Doctors. Match. Copperplate script. Match. Aristocrats. Match. Maroon eyes. Match. Murder. Match. For the first time she notices that Angelus' hands, which are clenched together at her side are identical with her beloveds. Match. They have the same hands, save for the scar that adorns Lecter's left. Match. Match. Match.  
  
  
Oh My God. It is the first thought that races through her brain. She forces herself to calm down, act as if nothing of any importance is happening. There is plenty of time for answers later. Dominique Montero is asking her a question.  
  
  
Her mouth has suddenly gone dry, feels that everything is being taken apart in her body, feels she contains nothing but smoke. The emptiness creating a hollow chasm inside the depths of her rational mind. Angelus stands up suddenly, without even excusing herself. Extremely uncharacteristic for someone with her impeccable manners and strict Roman Catholic upbringing.   
  
  
Clarice fears that the two of them have gone out of their minds. Angelus. Hannibal. She watches as the tall and formerly graceful figure stumbles out the restaurant and into the rain, taking her coat. Without any semblance to her previous finesse. She acts like a woman possessed. Clarice notices that Angelus has left the keys to her Ferrari on their table. She reaches out for them but is restrained by Dominique, who shakes her head slowly.  
  
  
"Clarice, I do not know what is going on, but I think that under the current circumstances, you had better let me drive."  
  
  
Mutely, she agrees. Her strength has left her, and she is too tired to argue a moot point. It's strange how your whole life can change in that one moment you let your guard down. And how it happens when you least expect it. She will not talk to Hannibal about this. It is something to be settled between he and Angelus.   
  
  



	7. Epilogue

disclaimer: not mine.  
  
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"Stand beneath this stained glass window  
Watch my colours bleed and run  
Beneath a slice of silver moon  
Lie broken pieces of the sun."  
  
  
Hannibal Lecter and Angelus Antoine stand together covered in blood in an elegant room from one of the estates in the south of France. Sunlight streams in the room, the rays catching the floating dust particles in a suspension. They stare passively at the mangled and mutilated corpse of Marie' Jacqueline Antoine, the former Comtesse de Valois. Their pulses are in sync at a constant eighty-five. Angelus reaches down and pulls the locket from the dead woman's throat roughly. Its delicate chain and the design etched in it are soaked with blood. She opens the locket. In it is a beautiful miniature of a young boy and a little girl. She raises her star shaped baby hands high up in the air as her brother continues to hold them aloft. She is smiling and her blue eyes catch the light perfectly.  
  
  
She knows without looking over at her father that the little boy is he. Even as a child Hannibal Lecter already had that frightening stillness law enforcement around the world would come to associate with Hannibal the Cannibal. The little girl intrigues her, though. She has seen those blue eyes somewhere before, but they do not anymore belong to the happy child. Lecter leans over and looks at it.   
  
  
"This is you, isn't it?" she says.  
  
  
"Yes. And that is my sister."  
  
  
"Hmm. Where is she now?"  
  
  
"She is dead."  
  
  
"I see." She takes a closer look at the portrait before putting it away in her pocket.  
  
  
Lecter turns to her. "No you don't," he whispers.  
  
  
She steps away from the carpet as Hannibal begins to roll it up, covering the deceased. Together they lift the body and go down the stair to the basement, where they dispose of it by throwing it in the ancient incinerator.   
  
  
  
  
  
As they go back upstairs, no words are exchanged. They understand each other perfectly, these two. Angelus rolls up her shirtsleeves and dips a mop into a bucket of soapy water. She starts to wash away the blood that has seeped through the carpet. Like the rain through the cobblestones almost two weeks ago. With each sweep, she finds herself being released, reborn. Hannibal Lecter watches her with the pride that only a father could have. He does not feel any remorse due to the disposal of his former paramour. Jacqueline Antoine has gotten her just desserts, so to speak.   
  
  
Task finished, they walk out of the room. Before leaving, Angelus takes one last look. Saints on stained glass windows watch, preternaturally knowing. The floor in front of the cold fireplace looks conspicuously bare without the rug, multicoloured patterns from the glass on the hard wood. It does not matter. The servants are not a chatty bunch, and they will forever hold their peace.  
  
  
Beyond the massive doors and the stone steps of the Antoine estate they go. In the bright sunlight sit two expensive sports cars. Both are Ferraris, one a silver 456 M and the other a red 365 GTS/4. Angelus gets into the silver car, Dr. Lecter standing outside, leaning down to speak a few words to his daughter.   
  
  
"Angelus."   
  
  
She looks up at him, her maroon eyes warm at long last. He sees his features reflected clearly in them. She raises one eyebrow, waiting. He does not say anything further apart from the initial whisper of her name.   
  
  
"I suppose you shall want to return to Clarice now, doctor." She says.  
  
  
"Yes."  
  
  
"You had better get going then. The night descends quickly." Angelus starts up her car, shifting the gear into neutral. It purrs like a great cat, engine running smoothly.  
  
  
"Where are you off to now?" he remains motionless.   
  
  
"Russia."  
  
  
"What will you do in Russia?" the gravel crunches slightly as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other.  
  
  
"Nothing. Just a long overdue visit to an old friend."  
  
  
"I understand."  
  
  
"Do take care, doctor."  
  
  
"Oh, I will..."   
  
  
She shifts the gear into primary and pulls away.  
  
  
Angelus smiles whimsically. Through the rear view mirror she can see Lecter still standing in the drive, watching her car. Her plane leaves for Russia in three hours. She is eager to see Mischa. And this time, it is she with the stories to tell.  
  
  
Far across the cold and frozen tundra, an older woman waits for her young friend, her blue eyes tired of life. But for now there is a softening in her features, as she thinks about Angelus. This young woman has her dead brother's eyes.   
  
-Fin-   
  
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ooookay. that was it. i know it sucked, i know it didn't have much to do with Lecter, i know y'all want to flame me, but pleeeease do it via e-mail, okey-dokey?  
  
  



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